


A Tousled Mess of Dirty Blonde

by theagonyofblank



Category: Commander in Chief (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-29
Updated: 2007-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theagonyofblank/pseuds/theagonyofblank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re just a press secretary.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tousled Mess of Dirty Blonde

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheepfairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepfairy/gifts).



> Written for sheepfairy for femslash07.

“You’re just a press secretary.”

 

The words sound far away, inconsistent and garbled. You’re too caught up in your work, head buried in stacks and piles of paperwork, and you’re not really listening. You’re not even sure those words are directed at you, and it takes you a short minute to register that you’re the press secretary, and that someone is indeed talking to you. But even before all that processes through your mind, it’s the voice that catches your attention immediately and holds you captive. You’d recognize that voice anywhere.

 

You look up to see Jayne Murray, arms crossed as she casually leans against the doorframe.

 

If not for the smug expression on her face and the simple way she wears her hair, you both may look similar.

 

Well, in terms of description, anyway.

 

Blonde hair. Grey eyes.

 

You two look nothing alike, though.

 

You both aren’t alike at all.

 

“You’re just Templeton’s Chief of Staff,” you reply.

 

Your voice isn’t as strong as you want it to be, but you try not to let the fact that it bothers you show. You know that she will use everything she notices about you against you, in that sly way of hers, and you don’t want her to have the upper hand. (She _always_ has the upper hand, and try as you might, you have never been able to beat her at her game.) You decide she’s just here to provoke, even though you know what she’s really here for, and you turn back to your work.

 

She can wait, you think to yourself as you resume your writing.

 

A second and two strides, and suddenly she’s standing in front of you.

 

So close, yet not close enough.

 

You put down your pen, run a hand through your hair, and sigh.

 

“Can I help you? I’m kind of busy.”

 

Frustration has seeped into your voice, and she raises a brow, as though challenging you to take that tone with her. You ignore her nonverbal goading, frowning at her instead. You have work to do, and you’re sure that she has work to do too. You don’t have time for this right now.

 

“Okay,” she says in response to your statement, accepting your explanation. “But your press conference won’t take all day, will it, Birthday Girl?”

 

The words surprise you, and you fix her with a hard stare. She’s right, of course – is she ever wrong? – it’s your birthday. You know that she isn’t the type to remember little details such as birthdays, and as the Chief of Staff, she has better details to worry about and to occupy her mind. You recognize that, and you have to wonder which is more pathetic: The fact that you’ve forgotten, or the fact that she’s remembered.

 

\---

 

You’re fairly certain that there’s some kind of derogatory slur that can be used to describe what she’s doing to you, or maybe it’s what you’re doing to her, long after the press conference. Either way, your lips are on hers, and one of her thighs is pressed between both of yours. Her hands are working at the buttons of your pink top, and now you’re kissing your way along her jawline, your hair mixing with hers, different shades of blonde blending to create a tousled mess of dirty blonde.

 

It’s going to be bad publicity if this gets out.

 

But if it’s bad publicity for Mac, and it’s bad publicity for Templeton, is it really bad publicity for anyone?

 

You ask her this, and she laughs.

 

“It’ll be bad for both sides, Kelly.”

 

That’s what she says, but the first part of her sentence is lost on you as you realize she’s just called you by name. She isn’t the type to do that, either, and you don’t know what to make of it. So you hold back, pretend not to notice as you cry out softly, never using _her_ name yet begging for more.

 

“Don’t worry about it, Birthday Girl,” she says later on, when you’re both curled up under the covers in bed. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

 

You disagree, but you know better than to say so.

 

But maybe you still look unsettled, because she kisses your shoulder – an offer of, attempt at, comfort.

 

And that’s when it strikes you.

 

This isn’t a competition anymore.

 

She’s not trying to use everything she can against you – far from it.

 

Whether or not she’s just doing this because of your birthday is not relevant.

 

Because you’re pretty sure that she’s fallen for you.

 

And you’re starting to realize that somehow, at some point in all of this, you’ve fallen for her, too.


End file.
